


The Game is On

by Reiya_Wakayama



Series: Give In, Oh Sweet Surrender [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Annoyed!Sherlock, BDSM, Bondage, Dom/sub, M/M, Slash, Spoilers, Sub!John, knots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-27
Updated: 2011-06-27
Packaged: 2017-10-20 19:07:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/216144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reiya_Wakayama/pseuds/Reiya_Wakayama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>pre-slash/slash, S/J, J/OMC, Sherlock notices something odd about John and decides to find out what it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Game is On

**Author's Note:**

> **Author's Note:** The third in my little series. I’ve become obsessed with this series. I bet many of the things you learn in these kinds of games could come in use, if you just knew how to apply them. Lols. Been awhile, hope you enjoy.

Sherlock kept his eyes glued to the computer screen, John’s laptop of course it was closest, and ignored the sound of his flat mate coming down the stairs. Except something sounded off. He paused, letting his hearing make the deductions even as he continued to look over the screen. John’s gait wasn’t like it usually was, somewhat loud and clumsy as he stumbled, still half asleep down the stairs. His steps were more coordinated, as if trying not to jolt something.

Not his leg, or else his right step would be off from his psychosomatic limp. As he reached the last stair, he turned his head slightly, watching the man out of the corner of his eye. There were rings under his eyes, testament of his late night. Stubble shaded his jaw subtly since he hadn’t shaved yet. As he passed, he got a whiff of smell off of him: sweat, beer, semen, and perfume. Conclusion: he went to the pub, as he said he was, and met a woman for a one-nighter.

Conclusion reached, he turned back to the computer, ignoring John as he rummaged through the fridge for food, and the sound of the kettle being filled gave evidence to his morning ritual of tea with breakfast. He heard a sigh from the kitchen. “We’re out of beans and almost out of milk. I guess I’ll go shopping. Anything you want?” He called to Sherlock. Finished typing with a flourish, he shut the computer.

“Nothing really, maybe those biscuits that you got last time.” He said aloud and doesn’t need to be there to know John is rolling his eyes, but he doesn’t say anything.

~*~

John glared at the Chip ‘n Pin machine in front of him, his anxiety rising from nowhere. These moments seem to crop up from nowhere and that coupled with his still sore back, leaves him testy and spitting fire at the thing of metal and plastic. Growling obscenities under his breath, he leaves the shopping there and backs away before he takes a swing at it.

Walking back to 221b Baker, he finds him seated where he was this morning, reading a book. “You took your time.” He says smoothly, not even looking up at him.

“I didn’t get the shopping.”

“What?” This time he does look, setting his book down to look in confusion at John. “Why not?”

His temper flares at the question, putting him on the defensive. “Because I had a row in the shop with a Chip ‘n Pin machine.”

“You had a row with a machine?” he can see the small smirk that curled his lips up, seeing the humor in it and his defensive anger fades.

“Sort of, it sat there and I shouted abuse at it. Have you got cash?” He tried not to smile.

“Take my card.” He goes and grabs it, heading back to the front line to face the Chip ‘n Pin machine.

~*~

 

By the time John gets back, he can see he’s tired and cross, his voice clipped as he carries the bags up the stairs. He doesn’t think it was the machine that caused John’s bad mood, so it was something else. He watched him (NOT pouting!) as John sits down in his chair after taking his computer back. He’s sitting stiffly, as if something is troubling him.

Maybe his shoulder acting up. He had done some research for another case about discharged veterans and their battle wounds. He’d deleted most of it since it wasn’t important for the case, but he had kept the small grains of knowledge. He knew that the muscle healed from such a traumatic experience often slightly off from, causing pain such as cramping and spasms.

“We should go to the bank.” Sherlock finally declared, talking over John’s stumbling attempt to ask to borrow money. The next few hours are full of information gathering and snide comments to Sebastian. By the end, John appears to be fine so he ignores the impulse to inquire about his wellbeing. He has a case now and work to do. John would understand.

~*~

Once they are gone from Van Coon’s apartment, things seem to go by faster. Sebastian’s none to please to hear about it, but he just learned about one of his employees dying, though he seems to not care if it was suicide or murder only the fact that he’s one man short.

If John hadn’t met him before and seen first-hand what he was like, he would have hated him there on the spot. The man is an arrogant prick who needs a good beating to show he’s not as important as he thinks he is.

He would hit him just for Sherlock’s sake, though he’d never admit it to Sherlock. Instead, he hides his urges behind his usual expression and follows Sherlock’s lead. Even if Sebastian’s uncaring, doesn’t mean Sherlock isn’t, though his caring isn’t necessarily what most expects.

~*~

By the time he emerges from the interview into the afternoon sunlight, he is feeling much better. His back had stopped throbbing sometime during their look around the bank. The aspirin he had taken may have had something to do with that.

He’s still mad at Sherlock for the stunt he pulled on him in the alley with his informant, he intends to bring it up with him when he gets back. He will not have a mark on his record just because Sherlock’s a git on a case. Well, he’s almost always a git, but on a case he’s worse.

As he calls the taxi, he feels eyes on him, but when he looks, no one is there. Shrugging it off, he goes to collect the journalist’s diary from Scotland Yard.

~*~

The night is cold as they hunt for more of the markings. And of course, the great idiot isn’t answering his phone. Forced to run to go look for him, he works up a sweat, the salt in it making his still somewhat fresh welts sting.

As Sherlock grabs his arms and starts to spin him, he has to bite back a curse when he lands on a welt, making it throb. He wrenches out of his hold as quickly as he can once Sherlock stops spinning him and pulls out his phone to show him the photo he’d taken. His arm throbs with each pulse of his heart while his body settles and the world stops spinning.

He’s exhausted and can barely keep his eyes open. Sherlock’s voice is all that keeps him awake, startling him whenever he starts to doze off. He starts again when Sherlock’s voice raises even louder, snatching papers off the wall and striding out. John stumbles to his feet and follows, wishing desperately for sleep.

~*~

It’s another long night as they wait for Soo Lin Yao to appear in the museum. Even then, they are too slow to save her from the assassin sent for her. John feels something clench inside, a fleeting memory from his past surfacing. Over her body appears another, someone else he could have saved, if only he could have been faster.

It starts to take over, the memories sweeping him up. He can smell the scent of sand and dust, hot bodies and rotting flesh, the smell of hot blood mixing with sand, sinking into his clothes and hair, breathed into his throat and nose. The smell never leaves, is never forgotten. He can feel himself shaking and with a wrench, he pulls himself together as the sound of Sherlock running into the room shakes him free of the memories. He doesn’t say anything about John’s shaken expression. He doesn’t have to. It would be obvious to anyone that this has affected him.

~*~

Of course it all comes to a head after Sherlock has left. They’ve been through every book from their apartments, hunted down all obscure clues. Even been assaulted on a date with Sarah that Sherlock purposefully invited himself on. It’s not even all that surprising, that somehow or another, they have mistaken him for Sherlock.

They even bring up good points: he’s still got Sherlock’s card in his pocket; Sebastian’s check to Sherlock; even the tickets from the ruined date were under Sherlock’s name; even his mocking of Sherlock as he searched Soo Lin Yao’s flat. It is a simple mistake, if you were watching from afar. And yet it is so blatantly obvious that he is not Sherlock that he wants to laugh if his head weren’t hurting so much.

The knots tying his hands and feet to the chairs are complex, not what he’s seen at Shera’s house, though he’s only been doing this for so long and hasn’t had much exposure to rope knots and the ways to get free of them. Obviously, he’s lacking in that area and should he survive this, he will certainly get his knowledge up to date.

Sherlock, of course, shows up at the last minute to save the day. He somehow gets free enough to save Sarah and he still feels shakes at how close that was. He’s joking when he tells Sarah about the next date. He knows that him trying to start a normal, safe relationship with her won’t work. He’s not normal, not in the sense that she believes. And he’s not friends with normal people. Sherlock for example and those he knows at Shera’s place. It would have never worked out.

He helps her home, feeling a little depressed. He had been hoping that it could have worked out for them. Life used to be much simpler before Sherlock, before the war. The fact this was all for a little jade hair pin, and that it was worth so much, still boggles his mind.

~*~

It is some days later and John seems distracted. The last case had taken its toll on both of them and even Sherlock had crashed onto his bed to sleep for a few hours. Still, he seems to still be thinking of it. He knows it’s not his blog. John had already typed it up since he’d had a free day yesterday.

He watches as John surfs the internet, looking preoccupied, his gaze flicking occasionally to the door and windows. Finally, he seems to come to some decision, shutting his laptop down and tucking it away onto the little table next to his chair.

He stands with a groan, stretching. “I’m off for a drink.” He mumbles, pulling on his coat. The sun has gone down and it is getting darker as time goes on. “Don’t wait up for me.” He calls as he descends the stair case and shuts the front door behind him.

Sherlock is up and has his coat on the second John shuts the door. Following his flat mate, he waits until John is in his cab and has pulled away before stepping out the door. Another cab is just behind John’s and pulls up at Sherlock’s signal.

The man doesn’t even look fazed at Sherlock’s request to follow John’s taxi. They pass John’s usual hang out and keep going, the cab getting further and further away from Baker St., Sherlock’s cab right on his tail, but keeping some distance.

As John’s cab pulls up and over, Sherlock orders his to do the same. They wait there as John gets out and pays the man. As the cab pulls away, he walks across the street, looking both ways for traffic. He hesitates, glancing briefly at the CCTV camera on the wall that surrounds the refurbished Victorian mansion. The walls are tall and thick, covered in heavy vines with some wicked looking thorns on them. Too much work to try and scale.

John smiles and greets the man at the front gate and is let through instantly. Sliding out, he pays his own cabbie, giving extra to the man to keep his mouth shut. Walking across, he tries to figure out, from what he can see of the building, what goes on inside. Curtains are drawn on the first two floors, the other floors too high to make anything out.

The gate is a heavy iron contraption with an old lock on it. The guard would get to him before he even got his lock picks out. Fixing the location into his mind with the address of the building, he walks off to hail another cab.

~*~

Twenty minutes later, he gets a text back for the message he had sent with the places address. If you want to know what John does, you shall have to ask him yourself. If he has said nothing, deduce it for yourself. Mycroft. Scowling at the message, he wants to throw his phone, but holds the urge in check. Instead, he sets the phone down and begins to pace, mind whirling as he tries to figure out what John is hiding from him.

Deciding that the best thing to do know is to gather more data. Taking the steps two at a time, he goes into John’s room. It is painfully neat and tidy, everything where it should be. It will be too easy to go through his things and put them back where they belong.

Half an hour later, he wants to throw the skull across the room. Instead he sets it down as he paces downstairs, finished going through John’s room. There was nothing in there that Sherlock hadn’t already deduced about the man, though he hadn’t known John had kept the bullet that he brought him down. It had been stored in a little cardboard box stuffed in his duffle bag of army things under his bed.

Glaring at the wall, he flung himself down onto the couch to think. It would be some time before John returned. He needed to think and he needed data. He could do the first now, but the latter would have to wait until the man came back. Sighing in annoyance at Mycroft’s stupid, dull principles, more like a way to annoy Sherlock, he wouldn’t be here now and he would already know.

~*~

 

The look on Gordon’s face as he expressed his idea had made him shake a little. The man looked way too happy to tie John up to be of comfort. Gordon hadn’t know that many knots though. So they had called in the resident expert on knots and escaping them.

John had stared at the little woman in disbelief and then amazement when she showed her skills to him on a piece of handy rope. At first, they had just sat down and she had shown him a few knots and where to pull on them to get them to if not come undone, than loosen enough to slip your hand through.

With new knowledge came practical application. His wrists were now slightly chafed from his struggles against the rope. Gordon had done his best to distract John as he tried to get the knots to release. Let’s just say that Gordon was good at being distracting. But by the time they had finished for the night, John was satisfied, physically and mentally, over his success. He could now get out of some of the more common knots. They had made a later date to continue his lessons. For now he was off to Baker St. and bed.

He was just about to open the gate when Hale steps forward from the shadowed guard house. “John, a moment.” John turns to face him, nodding to the man behind him who is leaving before facing the guard. “You were followed tonight.” He says, getting straight to the point.

“By who?” He asked, though he can probably guess who. Hale describes him and it fits his  
image almost perfectly. “Sherlock.” He tells the man.

“You know him?” He asked.

“My flat mate. Likes to know everything, no matter how personal.” John stands there thinking for a second before deciding to take a risk. “The next time he comes by, let him in. Let him get an eyeful of what goes on behind closed doors.” He joked with Hale and the man answered with a smile. “Thank you for informing me. Until next time.” He leaves, walking down the street to hail a cab.

~*~

The flat is dark when he arrives. Not stopping to see if Sherlock is up, he climbs the stairs to his room. The moment he steps in, something feels off. He can’t place it, but his once neat room, though still neat, has been disturbed somehow.

He already knows by who. Shrugging, he gets ready for bed. If Sherlock wanted to know so badly, he could just ask, though if John would actually tell him, he’s not sure. Laying down, he stares at the ceiling for a minute wondering if he made the right choice by giving Sherlock access to Shera’s place.

He falls asleep easily, tired after his long night and sleeps deep and dreamlessly. He doesn’t hear the door open nor Sherlock’s soft steps. By morning, Sherlock is gone and John is unaware of his late night visitor.

 **End.**


End file.
